


Gotta Have It

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And One Quick Spanking, Bottom Sherlock, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Greg's a Sexy Beast, Groping, Hair-pulling, Inspired by Music, Jealousy, M/M, Monogamy, Name-Calling, OMG SO Much Dirty Talk, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Series, Prompt Fic, Rimming, Sherlock's a Bit of a Twink, Teasing, Top Greg, but it's all in good fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3457016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*<br/>Greg gets turned on knowing other men want Sherlock; it's only Greg that gets to have him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Have It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> This story was prompted by the delightful, daring, delicious call-me-yt.tumblr. She wanted a Sherstrade fic set during early days of Sherlock's sobriety, and sent me the song "Bad Girlfriend" by Theory of a Deadman as further inspiration.
> 
> Damn, this is filthy. Place me directly in the garbage.

 

He'd only gone to the gents' long enough to piss and—yes—wash his hands, yet when Greg stepped back into the relentless, bass-heavy throb of the club, _of course_ there was suddenly a heavy scent of danger in the air, a ring of people shouting, some fluttering  _oh dear oh dear_  hands against their chests, some looking shocked, some rolling their eyes. Of course.  _Of fucking course_  there was.

And in the center of the circle, Sherlock, with some bloke twice his size in some complicated, Israeli-military headlock, his silvery-green eyes narrowed dangerously, a thin stream of blood oozing from one nostril.

Greg puffed up his chest, reached into the back pocket of his trousers for his badge, held it in front of him  like a battering ram, commanding, "Police, move aside. Police. Let me through.  _Now_." And the sea of club kids parted until his last firm stride landed him beside Sherlock. Without fanfare, Greg palmed the top of his bent head, clawed his fingers inward along Sherlock's scalp, tangling in his mop of hair, and he _pulled_.

Sherlock released his opponent immediately, both his bony hands grasping instead at Greg's wrist, futilely attempting to free himself even as Greg lead him—hunched over, shuffling, so undignified—through the crowd and straight out the door into the night. The humidity generated by three hundred gyrating humans in spike heels and motorcycle boots gave way to the bracing, dry coolness of an early autumn night.

Greg gave Sherlock's hair one more, exaggeratedly slow tug on his way to releasing him. Sherlock resumed his full height, moved in close, reached around to liberate a packet of cigarettes from Greg's back pocket.

"You're going to get yourself banned," Greg warned.

"Just as well. Everyone knows me there."

Sherlock drew out two cigarettes, clamped them in his teeth, struck a match without removing it from the matchbook, lit both smokes and slipped one between Greg's lips.

Greg started walking up the pavement; without hesitation Sherlock fell in step beside him. So that was a  _yes_  then. "Friend of yours?" he prodded.

Sherlock tried to take his hand but Greg put it in his pocket. Middle-aged vice cop being seen in the intimate company of a recently- and shakily-clean junkie was not something he could risk, with the promotion to DI in Major Crimes looking so promising.

"You know I don't have friends."

"So. . .?" Greg pressed.

"Apparently word has not quite spread that I'm _not the girl I used to be_ ," Sherlock said theatrically, briefly fluttering his own _oh dear oh dear_ hand in front of his chest, and tossing his head. "He asked, I said no, he demanded, I said fuck off, he grabbed me, and. . .well, you saw how it ended."

"About what I figured." He glanced sideways at Sherlock, still with now-dried blood between his nose and upper lip, and there were small, round bruises blooming on his skinny, pale arm just above the elbow, well below the short sleeve of his clinging t-shirt.  _Only fingerprints_ , Greg reminded himself; bruises on Sherlock's arms even two months ago had signified something entirely different.

Sherlock flicked the butt of his cigarette toward the gutter, draped himself over and around Greg's shoulder and Greg let him, despite himself. Sherlock's mouth against his ear was full of hot breath and Sherlock whispered, “You know I’m all yours now.”

Greg growled, low in his throat, and his hand found the back pocket of Sherlock’s impossibly tight jeans and slid inside, squeezed the plush buttock beneath. “Yeah,” he muttered, “Fuckin’ right you are.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Sherlock purred, and nipped Greg’s earlobe. He stutter-stepped, off-balance from alcohol and the delirious, post-clubbing high resultant from the heady mix of loud music, bodies pressing together on the crowded dancefloor, and lustful pheromones thick in the air.

“It’s not that,” Greg said, and let Sherlock wrap his long hands around his elbow. “Just gets me hot knowing other men want you. But that only I get to have you.”

Sherlock’s half-smile and lowered eyelids gave him away; he was pleased to be reminded of his status as a highly-sought prize. They’d reached the carpark and Greg opened the passenger door, chivalrous. Sherlock slid in. “I know what you’re up to,” he intoned slyly. Then added. “Don’t stop.”

Greg smirked, shut the door, rounded the rear of his car to assume the driver’s seat. En route to Sherlock’s flat, he kept up a steady stream of flattery and was rewarded with Sherlock’s busy hand in his lap.

“Every head turns the second you walk in there,” Greg told him. “I know because mine used to turn, too, before I knew you.”

“Before I blew you,” Sherlock corrected, almost sing-song.

“Oi. None of that. I was never your john.” Greg didn’t like to be reminded of the depths to which Sherlock had not long ago lowered himself in pursuit of his fix. Not because he looked down on it; only because he hated to think of Sherlock, who was worth more than diamonds, being treated as if he were cheap.

“No,” Sherlock allowed, and slid his palm, fingers-down, deeper between Greg’s parted thighs, curling around his bollocks through his trousers. “That’s true. You actually asked me out to dinner. If you’d had a better watch I’d have taken you for a sugar daddy.”

“You’re looking for a smack in the teeth, sweetheart.”

Sherlock slid his hand away from the good stuff, up toward Greg’s knee. “You were saying,” he prompted with narrowed eyes.

“Like tonight, I was sat there at the bar watching one after the next trying to dance close to you, wanting to touch you, wanting to even just _smell_ you.”

Sherlock’s hand resumed its former place, giving Greg’s thickening cock a squeeze as best as he could manage over the trousers.

“And you play into it; you’re a proper tease.”

“It’s not a _tease_ , it’s only false promises.”

“ _Christ, do that again and I’ll swerve us into a parked car_! False promises is pretty much the definition of a tease, Sherlock.”

“Hmm. . .” Nonchalant. Bored. Give him what he wants, you git, keep those bony fingers moving.

“That one tonight—blond, no shirt, the nipple rings?—he was gagging to bend you over. Couldn’t keep his eyes off that ripe bum of yours.”

Sherlock preened, sly grin and puffed-out chest. So fucking pleased with himself. His hand dipped down again to press and smooth over Greg’s bollocks, which were aching, trapped under his clothes. His attention drawn to his own frustrating state of dress reminded him that Sherlock was almost certainly naked beneath his snug denims, and his mouth went dry at the mental image of tugging open that column of buttons and Sherlock’s gorgeous, stiff cock thrusting out at Greg so he could stroke it with his hands, lick it with his tongue, _jeezus_. . .

“And the ginger one kept palming his crotch, trying to catch your eye.”

“I didn’t notice,” Sherlock demurred. “Are we nearly there? Slide your seat back so I don’t bang my head on the steering wheel.”

“ _Fuck’s sake, Sherlock_ ,” Greg groaned.

“That one I had to deal with called me a slut,” Sherlock offered with a grimace, and his fingers went after Greg’s belt buckle. Greg checked the speedometer and realized he was speeding significantly. He eased his foot back off the accelerator.

“You _are_ a slut,” Greg growled, a hungry smile dawning on his face. He glanced toward Sherlock.

“Only for your gorgeous fat cock, big man,” Sherlock volleyed back, and Greg groaned. Thank Christ, they were in Sherlock’s street. “And for your hot cum. _Mmm_. . . I love to taste it. I want to rub it between my fingertips and then lick it off.” Greg swatted Sherlock’s groping hand away from his lap so he could concentrate on parking without making it into a hit-and-run.  Sherlock rested the tip of his finger beside his lips and hummed stagily, faux-considering. “Oh. Maybe I _am_ a slut.”

“Take me upstairs and we’ll sort it out.”

*

Sherlock’s flat was repellant: overflowing glass ashtrays, clothes and shoes in trails between the loo and the bed, empty wrappers from the late night chip vans, crumpled wads of cash, leaking tubes and pots and spritz-bottles of hair product on every surface: floor, tables, worktops, windowsills. The bed sheets were filthy. Fuck it, though, it’s all ours, those stains, those smells, glitter dust that Sherlock rubs across his chest and over his stringy biceps.

Sherlock pulled Greg across the room by his shoulders, licking and biting his plump, pink lips to draw Greg’s attention to them, eyes wide as if he were some naïf shocked at his own boldness— _a man! In his room!_ His knees hit the edge of the mattress and he went flat on his back, pulled his tight t-shirt up to the level of his armpits, baring his practically-concave belly and the petal-pink nipples he pinched hard, rolling his torso in a seemingly-impossible, slithering S-shape. Greg planted a knee between Sherlock’s thighs and caged him in with hands planted at either side of his shoulders, slid a desperate, wet tongue flat against the beaded-up nipples, eliciting whines and caught breath from Sherlock, who tugged at Greg’s shirt, palmed the back of Greg’s head, urging him on.

Greg caught one pebbled bud between his teeth, tugged, not gently, and Sherlock arched up beneath him, whining in an uncharacteristically high pitch. Greg’s thigh between Sherlock’s shifted down and forward, and Sherlock wriggled against it, seeking friction. Taking the cue, Greg let him rut just a few times before he shifted away, hands going for Sherlock’s trousers, and finding—yes, just as he’d envisioned—a vertical column of buttons, which he yanked and tugged roughly until they gave. He groaned, palmed his thrumming cock through his trousers. Then Sherlock’s huge, skinny hands joined him in the effort of peeling the jeans away, Sherlock planting his feet on the mattress edge to lift his hips, his red-tipped prick smacking against the skin of his groin as Greg slid the jeans inside-out down the infinite length of Sherlock’s legs.

He froze where he stood, chest and shoulders heaving, and devoured Sherlock with his eyes: long, pale thighs parted, one knee raised; slim cock flushed pale pink, foreskin already working itself back from the glistening crown, lying flush in the crease between belly and thigh; angular torso quivering with breath and racing pulse and Sherlock’s habitual, _constant_ , needy squirming. And that face, that gorgeous, cut-glass face framed by those inky waves of hair. Sherlock’s tongue flicked out and circled his swollen lips lasciviously.

“Don’t make me regret not taking home some other man, Sergeant” Sherlock teased. “I’m a prize, and _you’ve_ won, don’t forget.”

Greg was on him in no time at all, catching Sherlock behind the knees and pressing them back, up, over his shoulders, shoving one forearm under Sherlock’s plump arse to cant his hips up, spreading him open with flat fingers, nosing into the musky heat with stubbled cheeks and chin, wide open mouth, rough wet tongue lapping and thrusting.

Sherlock sucked air in delighted shock. “ _Fuck!_ ” His hands reached and scrabbled against Greg’s head, his neck, his tricep, and Sherlock’s long feet and calves slid against his shoulders and back; he never could keep still, like everything in him was so desperate for stimulation and attention that everything on the outside kept reaching and twitching, searching for fulfillment of his bottomless need.

For his part, Greg was pressing, pushing, opening Sherlock with his tongue and his thumb, stretching resistant muscle beneath puckering skin, moaning and humming, his own hips jutting hard against the mattress as he sloppily, forcefully pushed in and up and forward. Sherlock found himself having to brace with flat palms against the wall behind his head lest he be shoved against it, or right through it.

Greg licked a wide, wet slide up, up, under and then over the tight skin of Sherlock’s lightly-fuzzed bollocks, knelt up and wiped saliva from his chin with the back of one hand. Sherlock showered him with a handful of foil packets and left it to Greg to sort the slick from the condoms.

“Turn over and show me it,” Greg commanded, and Sherlock got that petulant, _you-can’t-make-me_ look on his face.

“You could at least say please,” he scolded.

“Turn over, _please_ , and show me your pretty little arse, _please_ , because I want to eat it some more, _please_ , and open you up and fuck you so hard you’re begging me _please please please_ to fuck you harder and deeper and _more_.” Pinching three packets together between thumb and fingers, he tore at the corners with his teeth, spit the torn edges away and drizzled the slick onto his fingertips.

Sherlock moaned, and rolled, and raised himself onto his knees and forearms, resting his forehead against his wrists. Greg maneuvered himself back a bit, went again with an eager mouth at Sherlock’s hole, already glistening with Greg’s left-behind saliva. He flicked his tongue-tip up and up, tickling, and Sherlock’s hips twitched with an effort to keep still. Then Greg lapped hard and slow with a flat tongue, as wet as he could get it, and Sherlock groaned and pushed back against him. Greg hummed satisfaction, sat back on his heels, and pressed into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse with both thumbs, pushing both against his hole, dipping in once more with his tongue until he felt that Sherlock was open enough to receive not just the thrust of his tongue, but more. He leaned away to watch the tips of both thumbs vanish inside Sherlock’s body.

The _whuff_ of surprised breath Sherlock gasped out was stunning, like cold water poured down Greg’s back, and he muttered, “Yeah. That’s it. How are you so fucking _tight_?” He pushed in, and pulled outward, stroking up and around and down, stretching Sherlock open. “Oh, that’s gorgeous.” He dipped his tongue in once more, much more space between his outward-pulling thumbs now, and wriggled it inside Sherlock, made him jump forward as if he wanted to get away. Sitting back again, Greg commanded, “C’mere and help me.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock reached between his legs and his long fingers appeared, tracing through the pool of slick that clung to his skin all around his hole, then jabbing in the first two with a gasp and a whine. “Oh, fuck, you’re going to finish me,” Greg snarled, watching as Sherlock’s fingers slid in and out, quick and hard, and listening as Sherlock gasped in time with it. He continued to slide his thumbs north and south, with continuous outward pressure, until Sherlock’s pink-rimmed opening was relaxed and ready for him. “Keep it up; show me how much you want me,” Greg demanded as he withdrew to reach for his belt and free himself of his trousers at last. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, big man, you know I’m gagging for it. How long are you going to make me wait? I want that big thick cock in me. I’m so—“ his voice broke and he twisted his shoulder downward to improve his reach, pressing his fingers in deeper, harder, quicker, “— _so_ fucking ready for you.”

Greg walked forward on his knees, pressing down on Sherlock’s low back to adjust the angle of his body. “How do you want it?”

Sherlock withdrew his digits, used his slippery hand to roll his bollocks a bit before sliding his fist around his swollen, dangling prick. “Hard. Deep. And I want it to go on forever. And I want to hear you, grunting over me like an animal.”

Greg grabbed Sherlock’s hip with one hand, his own raging cock with the other, and lined himself up. Somehow, he made himself wait.

Sherlock whined high in his throat, and wiggled his arse. “ _Please_ ,” he moaned, stroking himself in quick, hard strokes from the base to the crown, downward toward the bed. “Come _on_. . .”

“You do sound like a needy slut,” Greg told him.

“I am. I _need_ it.” Sherlock pushed back, and Greg held his cock steady in his hand, and Sherlock managed it—pushed right back against him until the swollen head of his prick vanished inside. Greg watched the little lip of skin go from pink to white, stretched so tight around him there wasn’t even room for blood to get in. Sherlock sobbed, “Fuck! _Yesssss_!” He wriggled.

Greg smacked his hip. “Settle down,” he scolded, and Sherlock let out a moan but stilled his pelvis, slowed but didn’t stop the hand stroking his prick. Greg gritted out, “God, you greedy bitch. Greedy for my fat cock, are you?” He shoved in, hard and quick, almost to the hilt.

“You know I am. Fuck me, god, _please_ , just fucking—“

Greg shoved in more, slid back, pushed in again, holding Sherlock hard by the hips, leaning back so he could watch his cock moving in and out, the way Sherlock’s fuck-reddened skin stretched around him.

“So tight,” he grunted, and fucked. “ _So_ good.”

Sherlock _mmm-hmmm_ ’d and let Greg push and pull his hips as he fucked hard into him.

“Talk,” Greg growled.

“I see those men watching. Wanting me. And I see _you_ watching me. It’s all I want. You. Your big prick. Fucking me. Like this.”

“Yeah.”

“And I love sucking your fat cock. Licking it. I want to swallow it down. I want to choke on it. I love when you fuck my face hard. Hard. . . _Hard. . . **Hard**_.” He gasped out the words as Greg thrust into him, driving their bodies forward on the bed. Sherlock braced himself with one hand flat to the wall, still pulling hard and steady on his drizzling cock. “I _love_ your cum. I want you to fill me with it. I love to feel it running down my thighs after you fuck me.”

One of Greg’s hands released Sherlock’s hip, clawed its way up his pale back (one raggedly-bitten nail left red trails where it scratched and scraped) to grip his shoulder, pull him up and back to change the angle. Sherlock slid his knees forward, knelt up with his back arched, and Greg’s fingers worked through his hair to his scalp (a shimmering snow of glitter dust shook loose to land on his shoulders), raked up a fistful and _pulled_ until Sherlock had no choice but to follow, neck stretching to bare his throat. Greg’s strong arm went around him, holding Sherlock’s sweating back against his chest. He tugged Sherlock’s head all the way back beside his own face, turned him, and their mouths meet crookedly, sloppily, tongues and teeth crashing and missing each other at every wrong moment. Sherlock’s body tensed and twitched around Greg’s cock and he groaned against Sherlock’s throat, let him drop forward just enough so they could both move freely—Sherlock rolling his pelvis against Greg’s urgent thrusts.

He’d found the spot, was sure of it, because Sherlock let out the most obscene, two-part moans, high and loud as Greg thrust in, pitching downward as he backed out.

“You filthy thing,” Greg muttered, still gripping him by the hair, giving a quick tug, then again, making Sherlock hiccup a gasp. “Tell me more.”

“I. . .” Sherlock grunted, “Can’t— _fuck_. . . _unh. . . **fuck**_. . .”

Greg stilled himself though it took all his will to do so. Sherlock let out a frustrated yelp, ground his hips back futilely—Greg was already shoved in as far as he could get.

“Talk to me and I’ll fuck you.”

Sherlock shook his head—as much as he was able with Greg’s hand still gripping his hair—and his voice was a roll of breathless thunder. “What if one of them tried to kiss me? Would you punch his face and drag me out by my hair?”

Greg let out a gusting moan and rocked his hips back, not quite withdrawing—the tight ridge of Sherlock’s hole caught the thickened bulb of his cockhead—and slid back slowly, biting his lip against the urge to fuck fast and hard, to fill Sherlock’s willing arse with his spunk and then collapse across his back.

“You’d let him kiss me a bit before you did,” Sherlock asserted, and grunted out something like a laugh. “Let some other bloke lick my tongue, the way you do? Let him bite my lip and pull?”

“— _god_ —“

“What if he put his hands on my chest? What if he grabbed my hips so he could grind up against me.”

“Fuckin’ kill him,” Greg snarled, without hesitation.

“Why?” Sherlock challenged, and made a desperate circle with his hips, quickly licked the palm of his hand to get the slick going again and fisted his oozing prick, pumping up into the tight circle of his fingers.

“You’re mine.” Greg let his body do what it wanted, which was to fuck Sherlock _deep_ and _hard_. “Mine,” he grunted, and thrust, quick and forceful. “Mine. _Mine. **Mine**_.” He pulled hard on Sherlock’s hair until he whined, his long back bowed from his pelvis to his shoulders.

Greg hummed loud, closed his eyes, but the image of Sherlock’s tight hole gripping him, the round cheeks of his arse, the pale length of his freckled back were still there, clear as ever.

“Sherlock— _fuck_ —I’m gunna—“

“Yes! Fucking come inside me, please, _please_. . .”

Greg let go of Sherlock’s hair and his head dropped forward, and Greg dug fingers into the crease of Sherlock’s hips, yanking him back and down as he thrust in and up.

Sherlock let out a long, low _Ohhh_ that seemed to go on forever, and his shoulders shuddered, and Greg could feel every ripple and ridge of muscle inside him clutching and cramping in sympathy as he came across his curled hand, squeezing and fluttering around Greg’s throbbing, burning prick. He pulled Sherlock tight against his pelvis, deep as he could go, and his orgasm unfurled from low in his belly, and his cock thrummed and pulsed again and again, deep inside the impossibly tight heat of Sherlock’s body. Greg shouted, groaned, curled forward and pressed his teeth into the flesh and bone of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock fell forward onto both folded arms, panting, and Greg gripped the base of his cock, eased himself out. Sherlock whined at the sudden emptiness, and Greg moved a bit so that Sherlock could stretch out flat on his belly on the mattress, white legs going on forever. The muscles in his calves shifted as he flexed and pointed his feet.

Still huffing, Greg urged Sherlock to spread his legs, grabbed a pillow and stuffed it beneath his hips, tilting his arse up in the air.

Sherlock hummed lazily, but let himself be arranged to Greg’s liking. Greg leaned down and held Sherlock’s cheeks apart with one hand, got a good look at Sherlock’s fuck-reddened hole, starting to close down already. A stream of his cream-white cum was already oozing from it, dribbling toward Sherlock’s bollocks.

“There. . .” Greg murmured. “Look. You’re mine.” He scooped up the hot little trail with one curled finger, and pushed it back inside. Sherlock make a quick, quiet, sound of surprise, then settled—even tipped his hips back for Greg to get a better angle to look at him.

Greg felt stupid and sleepy, mesmerized by the sight of his spunk drizzling out of Sherlock’s well-fucked hole. As a bit more slid out, he swiped again with the tip of his index finger, and dragged it up and in, twisting to smear his cum around inside. Sherlock’s muscles tightened down in rippling spasms, and it wasn’t long at all before he was hugging Greg’s finger, nearly fully closed. It was glorious; Sherlock’s body holding him, holding his cum inside.

“ _Mmph_.” Sherlock sounded grumpy, and his thighs quivered. Greg reluctantly dragged his finger back, watched Sherlock wink closed as he withdrew. He leaned in and planted a damp, parted-lip kiss to the inside of his thigh where it met his plump bottom, then quickly finished undressing and climbed up to lie beside Sherlock. He had to slide the pillow out from under him to rest his head on. Sherlock immediately curled up around him, legs and arms everywhere and forever, head nuzzled up in the crook of Greg’s neck, damp lips kissing his throat, his jaw, and collarbone before Sherlock settled and sighed out contentment.

“So, big man. . .where you taking me tomorrow night?”

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> I have more prompts (endless, reeling lists of them) for you, YT. . .::bats eyelashes::


End file.
